Page 29 of A Meddlesome Match (The Vaughns #3)

One of the keys to managing pupils (unruly or not) was to begin with that which was praiseworthy. The key being “worthy.”

Compliments must be earnestly given and grounded in truth, else they eroded the budding trust—both in the giver and any future praise they offered. And only after the good had been explored could one then venture into the realm of critique.

Sifting through the possibilities (limited though they may be), Walter straightened. “Mr. Dix, you have done a wonderful job of keeping me informed of the work being done. You are always quick to respond to inquiries, which is extremely helpful.”

Pausing, he allowed the fellow to enjoy that moment before adding, “However, the plasterer you hired is unsuitable. The budget is fixed, and I will not add to it without a guarantee that these mistakes will not be repeated.”

Walter’s mouth dried. John Barrows. The name repeated in his mind like a prayer to the patron saint of spineless men. Though his pulse refused to slow, a jolt of strength surged through him, making him better able to face down Mr. Dix.

“His work has been substandard from the start, and now he’s made a costly mistake that even an apprentice would know to avoid. I do not expect perfection from my workers, but a blunder of this magnitude is unacceptable.”

“I do not agree at all. He is the best man for the job, and I stand by my decision to hire him,”

and with that, Mr. Dix fell into his usual babbling, listing the various reasons to support his stance, and Walter embraced the respite to gather his words once more.

“What I have inspected is unacceptable,”

said Walter when the fellow slowed enough for him to speak. “Unless you can explain how poor work and inflated costs make him the best man for the job, I cannot see how I can keep him on.

Mr. Dix blinked at him for a long moment before he straightened. “If you have so little faith in my opinion, then perhaps you ought to manage the work yourself.”

Eyes gleaming, the fellow puffed his chest as though having won a great victory, but all Walter could see was Master Barrow tip-toeing around a clearly defined rule, testing the boundary.

“Then so be it,”

said Walter, the realization striking him a moment before he spoke. “If the work takes longer but is done properly, that is a sacrifice I will have to make. I hired you to ensure the renovations were done well, on time, and within budget—none of which you have delivered.”

Mr. Dix’s brows rose, his expression slackening as he stared at his now-former employer. “But the work isn’t complete.”

“I will pay you what I owe you, of course, but I think it best we part ways,”

said Walter with a nod. Holding out his hand, he added, “Good afternoon, Mr. Dix.”

The fellow stared at it, the starch in his spine softening. “I need the job, sir.”

Walter’s hand hung between them for a moment as he studied the man before him. The bluster evaporated before his eyes, leaving Mr. Dix looking very much like one of his schoolboys facing expulsion—including an appropriate amount of deference in his tone as he tacked on that title at the end of his sentence.

“Your actions do not reflect that.”

Walter fought to keep his brows from leaping up at that declaration, for though it had emerged from his lips, it was precisely the sort of thing he wouldn’t have been able to say to an adult.

Mr. Dix took his hat from his head, twisting the thing about in his hands. “I know. I…I don’t know what to say. Other than that I am sorry for it.”

It would be so much easier to simply dismiss the fellow. Surely overseeing the work himself was the better course, rather than risking more of his time and money on Mr. Dix. At the very least, he ought to find someone more suited to be his partner in this. Yet Walter paused, studying the fellow as he stammered through his apology.

“Please, sir. My family. We need the money,”

said Mr. Dix, his eyes no longer able to meet Walter’s.

They say people mature. That adults are not the children they once were, as though age alone softened shortcomings and shaped character. But Walter knew that wasn’t true. Some boys refused to learn, becoming men with the same flaws—only more ingrained and harder to remove.

Yet watching Mr. Dix, Walter’s instincts warned him against walking away. Years of working with lads during that time of greatest growth had given him a sense for these things. Even the best lads stumbled. Sometimes all they needed was the chance to set things right. And more often than not, when they were trusted to rise, they did.

However, a question niggled in the back of his mind, demanding an answer first.

“Why are you so set on keeping the plasterer?”

Mr. Dix flinched, and though he tried to hide it, lies clearly sprang to his thoughts. Walter clung to his stern schoolmaster expression and waited to see whether this grown boy’s good sense would win out.

With a sigh, the fellow’s shoulders slumped.

“His father is like a brother to me and begged me to take him on. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t say no with everything he’s done for me and mine. I did my best to keep the rest on task, but with Conrad lounging about and taking advantage…”

The sentence drifted off with a sorrowful shake of his head.

“Do you think he will improve if given another opportunity?”

asked Walter, watching the fellow carefully.

“No,”

he replied without a hint of hesitation.

“And the masonry work in the parlor? You know it is inferior, so why hasn’t it been redone?”

Mr. Dix held up placating hands. “The man responsible for that is gone, and by the time it was discovered, most of the plasterwork had already been done.”

Walter gave a low hum as he considered that. “Are the others worth keeping on? Will they do the work well and in a timely fashion?”

Proving his instincts correct, he was pleased to see Mr. Dix give that proper consideration, shifting in place for several long moments before he nodded.

“I believe so, sir. With proper management, they’ll do a fine job.”

Walter met that with a nod of his own. “Then we shall keep the rest on, but I want the plasterer replaced as soon as possible. As the work will need to be removed and redone, I would like the masonry reexamined as well. I will pay for the additional plaster and labor needed to complete the work.”

Mr. Dix perked, his eyes shooting up, but Walter held up a warning finger.

“This is your one and only reprieve, Mr. Dix. I will not forgive a second time.”

“Yes…yes, sir,”

he stammered, setting his hat on his head. “Thank you, sir. I promise I will do better.”

Walter extended his hand, and Mr. Dix shook it furiously, babbling thanks before hurrying away. Holding fast to his composure, he watched the fellow disappear down the road, but once out of sight, Walter let out a heaving sigh, as though all the air in him escaped at once. Doubled over, he propped himself up with his hands on his knees.

Did that truly happen?

Straightening, he grinned like a fool as energy thrummed through him, urging him to whoop and skip about like a fool. Laughter welled up, unbidden and unchecked, as every part of him buzzed with relief and wonder and the wild, ridiculous hope that perhaps—just perhaps—he was now lord and master over his own tongue.

Hands on his hips, he turned his face to the dappled sky and closed his eyes, sending out a prayer of gratitude for that angel among women, Miss Sadie Vaughn, and the guidance she’d given him.

Turning to home, Walter’s footsteps felt lighter; though mud stuck to his shoes and made him slip as he forged ahead, the exhaustion of the day ebbed in the wake of this grand success. He reveled in this victory and the school that was to come—and the image of a mistress at the headmaster’s side when he opened the door to their first students.

As he entered the village, Walter gave a sharp nod to each person he passed, meeting their greetings with smiles, not caring that many of his neighbors answered it with puzzled frowns. He had initiated a difficult conversation, invited possible conflict, and not only stood his ground but won the day.

Such a small thing to celebrate.

The voice echoed in his mind, causing his steps to falter. And for the briefest moments, Walter felt that accusation dig into his heart. What sort of man struggled with speaking?

Yet no victory is small when one tackles a mighty hurdle. Those words came back to him, echoing throughout the years—all those many times Walter had encouraged his lads to do and to be better. What did it matter if a battle was easily won by another? All that mattered was that one entered the fray and came off conqueror. And a man couldn’t help but walk a little taller after that.

Straightening once more, Walter shrugged away those doubts and fears that dared to dim the joy of the moment and continued on his way. As he arrived at his front door and swept into his home, the oddest sentiment struck him: Walter felt like whistling. He couldn’t say he’d ever felt the inclination before, but it was certainly tickling at him—

“There you are!”

cried Mother, sweeping out of the parlor in a whirlwind of petticoats. “Why are you so tardy?”

“My lessons kept me late, and then I was waylaid by Mr. Dix,”

he said, hanging his hat on the peg by the door. “Where am I supposed to be?”

“With Miss Vaughn,”

said Mother with a huff, her hands thrown out as though he ought to have known the answer before she spoke.

“Did we have an appointment?”

He knew the answer to that question (for there was no amount of work that could make him forget such a crucial thing), but he couldn’t help asking.

“Her family has a gig, so she offered to assist me with gathering the bunting for the flower show, and I thought it would be the perfect outing for you to do together, so I told her I was feeling poorly when she arrived, but you were to be home an hour ago, and she insisted on going on alone,”

said Mother in a rush, ending with a heaving sigh.

Oh, that was poor news, indeed. Despite the elation still coursing through him, Walter’s shoulders slumped at having missed the opportunity to spend time in her company.

“That is disappointing, but I have no doubt she will manage the trip on her own.”

But Mother wrung her hands, her expression pinching. “You ought to go after her.”

The thought of doing so had already entered his mind before she spoke, but logic had quickly quashed it.

“If she is driving about, there is little chance our paths will cross when I will be on foot.”

As Walter considered it, he added, “And she will have to stop here to deliver the bunting before she returns to Thornsby. Perhaps we can entice her to stay for supper.”

“The roads!”

cried Mother, her brows rising. “I’ve heard they are in a terrible state. She might be stuck somewhere.”

“Mr. Dix said there was only trouble in the usual places,”

he assured her. “Miss Vaughn is intelligent enough to know to avoid them.”

“I think you ought to go after her.”

Mother continued to wring her hands with the determination of one doing laundry, and she fairly vibrated with anxiety, her body revealing that something was afoot—even if the lady herself was unwilling to speak.

“What is it?”

demanded Walter.

Mother gave a wave of the hand, which likely was meant to be airy and dismissive but, with the tautness of her muscles, came off like a jittery salute. “Nothing. I simply think it best that you do not tarry.”

Reaching for his hat, she snatched it off the peg and set it on his head before nudging him toward the door—but Walter planted his feet in place and turned to look at the lady, who bore all the familiar signs of one of his lads attempting to cover some sin.

“What did you do, Mother?”